#I just see it as showtime mostly

[iamespecter]

Showtime ship be like

[sforzesco]

THE BROTHERS PAOLO AND VITELLOZZO VITELLI

man. the fucking. cycles of violence going on here. war, condottieri brothers, the execution of paolo vitelli (but the on the matter of guilt: questionable! no proof besides the absence of potential violence, but what conspiracy-betrayal wants to leave behind proof? torture and execute him anyway. maybe machiavelli has a point! unfortunately you left a surviving brother), the congiura della magione, all of it coming together at the strage di senigallia. just blood and gore and war all the way down, never stopping for a breather, already on to it's next battlefield. also malaria is there!

in other news! it turns out if you want to draw a comic about the strage di senigallia, you have to figure out designs for all the people in the room, but if you draw vitellozzo, you also have to draw his brother because he's like. there. in a dead way. something something vitellozzo's desire to avenge his brother manifesting in his desire to brutalize florence for their role in his brother's death.

that said, I did not want to draw military armor for an illustration that was partially designed to test out some splatter brushes. in the future though….I will have to revisit that visual…..

[technicallyoneofakind]

While Fighting Jose:

Akechi: *that venomous, almost unhinged but mostly tired and threatening voice before the special/showtime attack* Let's end them...!

Joker: *puts a hand on his shoulder* Hey, I know you use these fights to burn off some stress, but remember... our opponent is a kid, this time. Might want to hold back a little so you don't traumatize them.

Akechi: *indignant grunt* Need I remind you that we've spent the last half hour using our strongest attacks?

Joker: Wait- you you haven't been holding back?!

Akechi: You have?!

Jose: ??? Do we need to take a break? We can pause if you guys want me to...

Akechi: I think we'll be fine. Let's just... get this over with.

[undercoverxs]

((HI I'm not here just popping to share that I didn't have a clue what the title of Kazui's first song meant until

[pinkrelish]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

[deepseaspriteblog]

15 sprites of Jane Crocker! I made the above prompt list mostly to motivate myself to sprite for fun more, but hey, if anyone wants to borrow it for themselves, feel free! Just, you know, tag me cause I would love to see 👉👈

For the fanspecies prompt, I made a new fanspecies- Fairy! I hope to develop it more soon. The costume prompt is based on Patissiere Peach from Princess Peach Showtime, and the free space sprite is a resprite on a very early Jane sprite I made.

[begginmonty]

finding out your career counsellors secret

(kinda links to working with mike, a prequel if you may, also i refer to him mostly as steve throughout this as you do not know his name is william afton yet. also not proofread again sorry. also its kinda bad im sorry i just got carried away)

it’s your 4th shift at your new security guard job and everythings going fine, no break ins, no weirdos, nothing, it’s nice and peaceful a book sits in your hand and a hot drink sits on your desk as the clock hits midnight yipee 6 more hours you mentally sigh

suddenly the animatronics performance mix starts playing through the speakers and you quickly snap out of your book, sitting up in your chair, confused as hell.

looking at the camera feeds you can see the animatronics on stage performing?? no ones pressed the button but there they are?? must be a bug right, a fault???

you cautiously walk to the performance area, flashlight in your hand, peaking around making sure no one had broken in the few seconds your eyes were away from the cameras. there's no one. just you and singing robots.

eXCEPTTT this is a little different because usually 30 seconds or so into the song bonnie moves in a way that blows the fuse of the whole performance but it hasn’t happened. they’re performing fully?? 

this wasnt in the fucking job description

you walk up to the showtime button and press it to see if it’ll stop the show but nope, it’s still going on and it’s starting to freak you out a little - yes it’s cool to see the animatronics move but this is something else, maybe turning off the whole electricity will work?

as you look at foxy, his eye completely makes eye contact with you for a few seconds but looking back to where it was before - did that just happen???? that’s just part of the show right?? The fox did not just make direct eye contact with you purposefully??? 

freaked out a little, you step back away and to the main centre of the room and breathe a second, trying to control your thoughts and your worries. its all just in your head. they’re probably malfunctioning a little bit its fine, go turn the power off and on again.

“fucking hell” you mumble, going to turn around but suddenly from behind, there's an arm strongly clutching your face, a hand covering your mouth and your hands are held tightly behind your back, like some sort of police arrest, by the other arm. you go to let out a scream, but the hand tightly clutches your mouth.

“ssh” and you're wiggling around trying to break free but whoever's holding you is immensely strong and manages to keep you locked in place. with their hand still covering your mouth, the captor forces your head to face forward of the performing animatronics. 

there's a deep chuckle from behind you, “it’s truly amazing isn't it?” . uh oh. you recognise that voice. you’ve heard it a lot but no?? it cant be right??

but your suspicions are right as your captors head sits against yours, upon your shoulder, and you look out of the corner of your eyes and there he is. steve. steve raglan, your fucking career counsellor. 

he’s captivated by the performance of the robots, a look of pride upon his face, and he’s slightly moving the two of you to song. tears of fear are welling in your eyes, shaking, but the song comes to an abrupt stop and the animatronics shut down.

“YOU ARE USELESS!” he seems to shout at the animatronics??, “YOU CANT EVEN FINISH ONE SONG!” 

you’re just stood in his captive, confusion and fear writhing through your body but in his moments of shouting, you nearly manage to pull yourself away from him but he’s quick, he seems to know what he’s doing, and he just grips you closer to him, his breath on your neck, he sounds angry but he lets out another chuckle. a deep, evil sounding one.

“steve?” you manage to get out, a few tears escaping your eyes.

he laughs, he’s enjoying this sick and twisted moment, “bet you weren’t expecting me were you?” and his voice is deep and dark and moving your eyes to look at him next to you again there's an evil smirk on his lips. “this is always fun”

then it all went black

your eyes slowly blink open to a blinding light looking at you, and it feels like you’re at the dentist but you quickly snap back to reality when you realise your hands are bound as is your chest and you’re sat/laying in some sort of mechanical chair. there's, what you can only describe to be, a ribcage looking contraction either side of you but when you look in front of you, is a head contraption, it looks like freddy’s but metallic.

“wakey wakey” steve is sat, like a dentist, in a swivel chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, to the right of you and you look at him and he’s got that evil grin on his face again, he’s leaning against your metal seat. “Awe” he says  pouting his lips in response, to the tears in your eyes and the way you're desperately trying to free yourself.

and you’re pleading with him to stop, and he’s looking down at you, and his gaze lingers on your face for a minute too long before he moves and flips a switch next to him. 

the metal face in front of you whirrs and begins moving closer to you, and you're shaking your hands like mad trying to free yourself. he’s just stood watching, and you’re pleading and pleading, “please i wont say anything to anyone. I’ll do anything please!” 

everything stops and the machine is retracted away from your face, your chest falls in relief and steve is looking over you again, “you know, i’ve  always had a strong liking for you, y/n” and his eyes are lingering on your face again as he brushes a fallen strand of hair away, your eyes lock for while, and he smiles.

nothing is really explained to you for the rest of your shift. but you realise he owns this place and whilst you’re calming down, he explains about a new hire and how he wants you to make sure he does not quit the job. before he leaves for the rest of your shift, he has that lingering gaze and strokes your cheek softly. 

you spend the rest of your shift sitting in your office chair, freaking out, collecting your thoughts and trying to chill the fuck out. what the fuck just happened.

[the-amazing-digital-time-capsule]

The Amazing Digital Time Capsule!

The Au is Currently in the works, but I have plans and will constantly be expanding it!

The blog is run by @mangotangerinepastry I will take questions and post things there as well. This blog was made mostly so I can just organize my ideas better.

Synopsis

"Every period of time holds value! no matter what its current situation. Why lose the culture from any period, visit and contribute to the ever growing collection human history with our Digital Time Capsule!"

Unfortunately leaving was not apart of the deal...

New Designs (in progress)

The current contributors of the capsule are (Outdated new designs and cards coming)

Content

Official comic

TADTC #1

TADTC #2

Canon fics

The Anniversary Ball ( @thescarletnargacuga )

Bullseye ( @thescarletnargacuga )

Official Lore

Caines habit

Ragatha and the Kids

The Aftermath

Abstraction

Caine through the years

The Adults

Lore Dump #1

Lore Dump#2

The First Real Conversation

Lore Asks

Swearing | How the AI stays in Control of Leaders | Pomni and Caine Duet? | Wing Man Gangle | Life for Caine in the 20s | The Adults | Why Caine loves Pomni | Relationships, Showtime?|

Side events

The Piano (ShowTime Comic)

Sleep deprived concept art

Showtime kiss (non canon)

Yeehaw (showtime comic)

HD (non canon...kinda)

!RULES!

Roleplay Asks?

I'm not a roleplay account! I just tell the story, so please don't send roleplay related asks. Basically just don't ask characters things directly, they will not respond. If you do send an ask that addresses a character I might ( under the right circumstances) still answer it but the character will not. I love interacting with you guys and answering questions but I do not feel comfortable doing roleplay or pretending to be a character. I simply act as a narrator.

Outside Content

Asks and Fanart, if anyone wants to, are welcome! So are fanfics and comic dubing. Please Tag Me if you make art (I want to see it)! Unless it's NSFW, I really would not like anyone making NSFW content with my au, but if you still feel inclined to make it, just don't tag me. I don't want to see NSFW.

The only Canonical ship is showtime, take with that what you will.

[djevelbl]

I feel like explaining how Branzy's mannerisms look like in my head is SO. HARD bc he feels like SUCH a peculiar and specific type of person, that even if I TRIED there wouldn't be a fully correct way to string words together to paint the picture. But fuck it we ball — lemme try anyway

(ofc, I'm here talking about his character and personality as he portrays himself in his videos; the same goes for any other youtuber I namedrop as I'm yapping. I don't feel like I have to clarify this, but still. covering my own ass out here, media literacy, yadda yadda, you get it)

In the LifeSteal videos I've watched where he participates/is the main focus of (the Heart Factory + Amusement Park saga mostly, so not a lot lol) he has this... This showmanship, this stage presence, like he's standing alone on the stage floor, the spotlight's on him and the little earpiece hung on him has told him "it's showtime." It's like he's the opening number for the Broadway Musical you came to watch, like he's the circus master of the show; he's all you can focus on once he starts talking, really: he's hilarious and charismatic, disarming with that devilish charm of his, that has endeared him to the deadliest player of the server — even if you never see his face, you can hear his smile every time he talks.

For having been on a Minecraft server that prides itself in death, destruction and preying on players' insecurities before shaking hands on a good season played, Branzy wears his emotions very plainly in how he speaks: he doesn't hide his fear, or his amazement, his excitement, his bloodlust. It's how he is, of course — hiding who you are is hard, but Branzy also plays this all up in his favor: faking his reactions when necessary, blatantly able to disregard his current emotional state to match the attitude of those around him (main example being him matching Clown's attitude even through his own fear of the guy), being able to lie through his teeth about pretty important things (like the state of Carnival Mode to Squiddo at the end of season 5), and others.

His poker face is a smile — all crow's feet and charming show of teeth, something happy and elated as he shows his newest killing contraption and explains it out to his soon-to-be victims. And they fall for it hook, line, sinker. A practiced dance everyone follows Branzy's lead in, subconsciously or otherwise. Because how deadly can it be if it's Branzy who made it?

Not just that, but he's very energetic and has a brand of attitude and sass that kinda reminds me of JT Music in The Details in the Devil (stay with me. I SWEAR this makes sense) — it's the over-the-top singing, the way he goes from a higher pitch to a lower one, the way JT Music's voice rasps around the edges; it all has the same vibe and attitude to me as Branzy's showman persona: all glamour for the camera, a big smile to attract new clientele, charm that oozes out of every pore and you don't even notice that it's a deal with the devil you're making. Until he's gone and you're left to pick up the pieces — even then, sometimes you just don't. notice.

A maybe (hopefully) easier to picture example

To me, in a sense, Branzy feels like the in-between missing link of AM from I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream and Caine from The Amazing Digital Circus: all the bloodlust, anger, and sadistic tendencies from AM, and all the genuine, kind, goofy showmaster personality of Caine — a weird combo, for sure, but Caine is already based off of AM so like, thought it was as appropriate of a comparison I could make; especially bc Caine is a ringmaster, and Branzy does give ringmaster vibes to me so idk

Ofc, this is him at his peak, in his element, where he controls the playing chips — he's playing 4D chess and everyone's using checkers pieces. This is him gathering and casually using the power and influence he lords over the server — I mean, have you seen how ppl react to his mere appearance?? People love him, that's where he thrives: where people have an attachment to Branzy, Branzy has power; people kept coming back to the rollercoaster bc it was fun and a challenge and bc it was Branzy who made it — throw the credit onto Clown, ManePear, FlameFrags, any other pvp-skilled player, and watch as people run the other way. Branzy is the perfect combo of charismatic, charming, boyfailure-coded, somehow still competent, and fun to amass server-wide cred that wouldn't be broken no matter how many lives he claims via his machinery.

Clown is dangerous, sure — he's good at pvp and intimidating, he can do his fair share of manipulation when needed, but he's ultimately relatively easy to avoid: he follows a set of rules and while he doesn't vocalize them, if you observe him enough you'll eventually learn them. You'll eventually understand what the triggers are, which convo topics are best to avoid and how to best gain favor with him.

Branzy, though? He's very much a loose canon — beyond keeping his good relationship with Clown for protection (and bc he cares, let's be honest here) and whatever he deems fun today, I doubt he cares about much else; these two things are THE. MOST important to him, and there's little you can personally do to control either, if anything at all.

Branzy is SO interesting to me bc he's outwardly all smiles, happy-go-lucky in a sense and a coward — everyone knows this, it ain't no secret, and if it ever was meant to be we've left that station SEVERAL seasons ago. Yet inside there's a raging beast that begs to be released — the only reason we don't see it too often is LITERALLY bc Branzy is HORRIBLE at pvp; we STILL see it though: in how he encourages people to keep trying his deadly park rides, how he dangles prizes in front of their faces so sweetly and so casually so they keep coming back. In how he doesn't hesitate to betray his team so he can gain favor with Clown, a character he believes will be a bigger protection than his team was beforehand. In how he didn't even bat an eye as he bold-face lied to Squiddo about Carnival Mode being broken when it was most beneficial for Clown for it to "be broken". In how he casually makes a bragging joke about having easily killed two of the strongest players without lifting a finger to battle, because they wanted to play his carnival games.

Branzy has two loyalties: first to Clown and second to himself. Everyone else be damned

So coming back to the mannerisms thing — in my head he's extra extra: I'm talking "dangled upside down from a tree branch to scare someone as he introduced them all to the Chicken Launchers" type of extra, I'm talking "he did a handstand on the rollercoaster cart (with his elytra on, he isn't stupid I swear) as it jumped over the tiny lava pit to introduce people to the attraction" type of extra, I'm talking "he designed a mechanical crossbow he could wear on his arm so he could shoot the door locking mechanism trigger at the bigtop tent the most dramatic way possible" type of extra. He's a theater kid at heart, I just know it — he's dramatic and extra and so fun, so of course he'd have fun with it all! He's an adrenaline junkie (honestly? Why else is he still a sucker for Clown?? Adrenaline junkie + that's his work bf) and he will do a dramatic full split in front of Fleshy's to introduce people to the food stand and you cannot change my mind

So. Yea! In my head Branzy's mannerisms are a combo of showman enthusiasm, theater kid dramatics, acrobatics fueled by his adrenaline junkie ways, and random rubberhose-like body movements that are uncanny on like. an ACTUAL normal human body bc he reminds me of Bendy and I. Don't know. How else. To cope with it, so deal with it.

[franglishetchocolat]

A mostly decorative parking lot for Riverview

FOOD TRAILER PARKING LOT

Built on patch 1.67 - Originally built in Riverview where the Diner lot used to be (18x24) - Lot label = Visitors Allowed

Parking lot with food vendor (WA food register), for the Industrial District. Located just behind the Jazz Lounge.

Using Items from: 

No Store Item, No CC

EPs: WA, Ambitions, Late Night, Generations, Pets, Showtime, Seasons, University Life and Island Paradise.

SPs: High End Loft and Outdoor Living. Maybe Town Life and Fast Lane. But there shouldn’t be anything from Mastersuite, Diesel, the 70s,80s and the Movie Stuff packs (and I don't have the KP one)

DOWNLOAD

I use markers on my lots: skip level, hidden room, public room… So to be able to modify any of  these buildings you need to have cheats on:  ‘testingcheatsenabled true’, then ‘restrictbuildbuyinbuildings false’ To see/remove the markers you need ‘buydebug on.

[thescarletnargacuga]

Time Capsule fic request!

Someone entered the capsule and is in love with Pomni (he actually is a chill and overall nice guy) and later on him and Pomni becoming best friends (maybe he plays the flute and they perform duets a lot)

Caine get jealous but has trouble saying he’s jealous until he overhears the new person confess to Pomni. Caine has now a choice to make…confess to Pomni and whisk her away from this new guy or let Pomni be taken from him.

CHOICE

A TIME CAPSULE SHOWTIME ONESHOT

AU credit @mangotangerinepastry @the-amazing-digital-time-capsule

WARNING: hurt/comfort, jealousy, alcohol, chain smoking

~~~

Pomni danced across the stage, around the flutist she was dueting with. While the flutist stayed mostly in place to maintain control of their breathing, Pomni spun and kicked and swayed. The melodies from their individual instruments flowed together like musical ribbons in the wind. A truly awe inspiring performance.

Caine stood in the shadows just off stage, smiling dreamily at Pomni. The music was almost as beautiful as she was. He did his best to catch as many performances as possible. The focus and poise demonstrated by her was captivating.

The music ended with both performers striking dramatic poses, holding them for the applause. Then, they took their bows and exit stage right. Pomni smiled when she saw Caine.

He had been lightly applauding with a returned smile in his eyes. "Very well done, Pomni." He praised quietly as he walked past her to the stage. He straightened up and threw his hands out, stage voice on. "Wasn't that wonderful, ladies and gentlemen? Let's hear another round of applause for our intrepid orchestral duo!"

Pomni and the flutist had big drinks of water and put away their instruments as Caine introduced the next act. Pomni propped her leg up on a bench and stretched her hamstring. "Ugh, almost gave myself a cramp on that last spin. I don't know why I can't just play. I shouldn't have to dance around like a monkey."

The flutist shrugged. "Audiences demanded it. You know how it is." He locked up his flute case. "Hey, uh, since we're waiting for Gangle to finish, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something." He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously.

Pomni put her leg down and straightened her jacket. "Sure. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, can we..." The flutist looked around. "Speak privately?" He gestured further backstage where they wouldn't be seen by anyone that came through the staff door.

"Okay..?" Pomni followed him to the secluded corner. She anxiously swung her arms at her side. "So, what's up?"

The flutist took a deep breath. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you..."

Pomni froze, eyes widening a little. Oh no.

Caine exited the stage as Gangle entered in a flourish to give her performance. "Jagoffs." He muttered under his breath. The audience deadpan stares always bore into his skin when he did the announcements. He could feel their judging eyes and disdain for those they saw as beneath them. They sickened him.

Looking around he didn't see Pomni, but her violin was still backstage. She wouldn't have left without it. He heard quiet voices coming from the back, barely over the music from Gangle's performance. He walked over with intent to investigate, but paused when he heard the flutist.

"...I enjoy being your friend, and I hope to stay as such even if you say no, but I wanted to tell you that lately I've been feeling- or rather hoping, that we could...be more than that?" The flutist nervously fidgeted in place, struggling to maintain eye contact.

Pomni cringed. Not from the confession, but from how awkward she felt dealing with this kind of conversation. "Oh....um....heh....."

"It's just, I think you're really cool and smart and- and pretty. You're the most amazing woman I've ever met." The flutist was blushing, grateful for the low light. "There are not a lot of options for dates, but maybe we could go for a walk in the botanical gardens? Later today, maybe?"

Caine's mind could barely process what was happening. This wasn't happening. It couldn't. The way Pomni looks and talks to him led him to believe....was he seeing something that was never there?

Pomni gulped. "Listen, I really like you. You're a good performer and an even better friend. You're fun to be around."

Caine heard enough. He couldn't stand listening to another word. Of course it had been wishful thinking. She was interested in someone less broken. Who could blame her? He stormed out the staff door, slamming it hard.

Pomni jumped at the sudden sound and looked around the crates that hid her and the flutist. There had only been one other person around the stage. "Caine?"

~~~

"Fun to be around. That's what she said!" Caine moped as he downed his drink, sitting at Kinger's bar after hours. "I'm fun! Certainly leaps and bounds beyond someone with a flute shoved up their nose every day!"

"Mmhm." Kinger nodded as he idly polished a glass. "And you overheard their whole conversation?"

"No! I wasn't going to stick around and listen to her fawn over him!" Caine tossed his cigarette butt into the ashtray and immediately lit up another. "I don't care if she likes someone else-"

Kinger looked up from his glass, deadpan expression in his eyes.

"Shut up." Caine pointed at him. "I just wish she wouldn't lead ME on while she was at it!"

"What makes you say that? Pomni's a nice girl, I doubt she'd intentionally-"

"THAT'S JUST IT! She's not! Her feminine whiles are too much for me. The way she talks, the way she smiles, hell- even the way she stands while talking to me at any given time, about any given subject, screams interest." Caine finished his drink and tapped the glass on the bar for a refill.

Kinger obliged. "Caine, you're being ridiculous. I've seen the way you two interact. I doubt she's interested in the other guy. You should've stuck about for the but that was obviously coming."

Caine grumbled and drank. "I was kidding myself ever thinking she'd..." He trailed off, holding his head in his hand.

Kinger almost rolled his eyes. "When you're done having your pity party, go talk to her. You care about her don't you?"

Caine didn't answer, his frown only deepened.

Kinger sighed. "Look, whatever choice she made, that's her choice. You must respect that."

".....I do. But I can still be sad about it."

"Fair enough." Kinger could sympathize with heartbreak better than most.

~

Caine's condition did not improve over the coming days. In fact, it worsened. He avoided Pomni at every turn, and spent his off hours drunk off his ass at Kinger's bar and chain smoking like a chimney.

"Filler....up...." Caine slurred, pushing his glass towards Kinger. His head laid on the bar, a half burned cigarette between his teeth.

Kinger took the glass. "I'm cutting you off."

Caine gave a pathetic whine. "Not now...I've almost forgotten how much I....how much I...." Tears spilled out from his teeth.

Kinger wiped down his bar. "If you would just talk to her-"

"I CAN'T!!" Caine spat out his cigarette, scattering ashes. "She won't- she'll just-"

"Stop making assumptions." Kinger said sternly, cleaning up the ashes with some annoyance. "Have you really forgotten the Anniversary Ball already? The way you two danced was like nothing I saw before. And, come on, the bush incident is rather infamous." He chuckled.

"....the....what?" Caine lifted his head slightly. It's dense structure makes his neck droop. "Bush..?"

"Wow, you must be really far gone to not remember the bush. How disheveled and covered in dirt you two were? You're lucky all the guests were too drunk to care."

Caine's bloodshot eyes widened. "You-"

"Oh yeah, we noticed. Plus, Gangle told us all about how she found you. I applaud you, really, gutsy move to do that at an event as important as the anniversary ball."

Caine didn't know how to respond. His memory was fogged by the intense alcohol consumption, but he could just make out the vision of having Pomni beneath him. Her pulling him closer by his tie. His heart racing.

"That was....I don't know what..." Caine grew frustrated and closed his teeth. He held his head in his hands, unsure if he was about to cry again or throw up. The volatile mix of nicotine and alcohol in his system wasn't helping.

Kinger shook his head. "You should really-"

"Meh, meh, meh. I'm Kinger and I know everything about women." Caine childishly mocked. "Just stop. I'm not here for advice. I'm here to pretend I can't feel how much everything hurts."

"I was just going to tell you to look to your right." Kinger nodded to the side.

Caine looked, seeing Pomni sitting on the barstool next to him. "GAH!" His heavy head flew back and dragged his drunk body backwards off his stool. He laid on the floor, dizzy.

"Had enough to not run away this time?" Pomni stared.

Kinger served Pomni a Roy Rogers with a maraschino cherry on top. "Sorry about him, Pomni. He's having an...episode."

Pomni smirked. "Thank you. I'll handle him." She sipped her drink.

Caine rolled over, slowly getting to his knees and even more slowly climbing the bar to get back on his stool. He was hardly capable of coherent thought, let alone fast movements at this point. He thought for a second to summon BUBLE's teleport, he certainly wouldn't have felt it, but the way she looked at him was enough to convince him to stay. He'd missed those eyes.

"You've been avoiding me." Pomni's smirk faltered.

"You've noticed." Caine rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

"Didn't take much. You're not as subtle as you think you are."

Caine felt the hit to his ego all the way in his chest.

Kinger was struggling not to laugh as he cleaned glasses.

Caine dragged his hands down his face. "....why are you here?"

"You overhead me talking to the flutist, didn't you?"

"...yes." Caine eventually admitted.

"Did you hear me turn him down?"

"N- huh??" Caine's head did not like him looking at her so suddenly.

Pomni sipped her drink. "Yeah, I wasn't interested. We're still friends. He's a good guy, but my romantic intrigue lies elsewhere."

"You like someone else..?" Caine couldn't process her words. Too many thoughts were happening at once.

Pomni smiled. "Oh yeah. He's tall, handsome, runs a circus. You might know him?"

Caine stared. One eye blinked before the other. "....I run the circus."

Pomni's drink came out her nose, and Kinger couldn't hold back anymore. Both of them broke into fits of laughter. Kinger pounded his fist on the bar. Pomni coughed and held the cocktail napkin to her face.

Caine was taken aback. "What's so funny?"

"You- HA! You actual dumbass!" Kinger was crying with laughter.

Pomni wiped her face and coughed the rest of her soda out of her wind pipe. Her nose burned. "Caine," She giggled. "Of course it's you. I'm telling you: I like YOU. Honestly, I thought you already knew that."

"But, I haven't done anything. I haven't made the move yet."

Pomni gave him a sympathetic smile. "Times have changed. You don't have to make the first move. Though, if you insist, I'm waiting." She leans against the bar, giving him an inviting look.

Caine sits up, ramrod straight, and looks at Kinger. "Uhhh-"

Kinger put his six hands up, still half laughing. "Don't look at me. You're on your own with this." He wiped up the mess Pomni made and turned his back.

Caine swallowed hard. He wasn't sober enough for this. "Pomni, I... I'm sorry. I was- I AM such an idiot."

"Good start." Kinger said from the sink.

"I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WEREN'T HELPING!!" Caine snapped.

Kinger's shoulders shook as he chuckled.

"Go on, Caine. I'm listening." Pomni put her hand on his.

Caine could feel his heart hammering, his head swimming. "I can only ask for a chance. Will you allow me...to take you...on a date?"

Pomni grabbed his disheveled shirt and pulled him in to kiss the side of his lower jaw. "Yes."

Caine was stunned. "I love you." He drunkenly drolls out.

"Slow down, tiger." Pomni laughs.

[skipper1331]

Prank // Victoria Pelova

"I have an idea for you" a Katie McCabe stated with a mieschief smile while the two of you were in the kitchen. It was team movie night at your and Vics apartment but your girlfriend was too occupied by the movie to help you, so the irish woman offered her help to re-fill the snacks. "Go on"

"Last night, i saw a video 'Calling my partner by their full name to see their reaction' - wanna do it on Vic?" she grinned, knowing you could never resist pranks like that. "You‘re evil, woman" you laughed.

You always called the dutch 'baby' or 'my love' which she absolutely adored. It made her heart race and if you didn’t, you’re mostly out with other people where you addressed her as Vic or Viccy, never Victoria. The last time you called her Victoria was ages ago.

"You in?"

"Of course"

As the movie finished, everybody started their journey home while your girlfriend was cleaning the surface. "Go ahead, mijn liefje. I’ll come to bed in just a minute". In your tired state you just nodded and went to your shared bedroom. You were almost asleep when you felt the bed dip beside you. Strong arms wrapped around your waist which pulled your back against your lovers front "goede nacht, liefje" she pressed a final kiss to the back of your head before she drifted off to sleep, her soft snores filling the room. Tomorrow is showtime, you thought, falling into a slumber a second later.

As you woke up, you felt your lovers fingers stroke over your features. "Good morning" the dutch whispered, pressing multiple kisses along your cheek. "Hi"

Vic was making breakfast while you were in the living room cleaning the last few items from last night. "Do you know where the remote is, Victoria?" you called to get the plan rolling.

"Victoria?" said person whispered while frowning, quickly entering the living room. "No? It was there last night"

"Okay" you said, still searching. "Breakfast is ready, mijn liefje," she pulled you in the kitchen "i made your favorite" smiling, she placed a plate in front of you. As a thanks you pressed a peck to her cheek. You loved it when Vic made breakfast, especially when it was your favorite.

While the two of you ate breakfast you talked about everything and nothing. You purposely avoided mentioning her name so your little joke wouldn‘t be exposed too soon. Also because you hadn‘t seen her reaction as you called her 'Victoria' the first time.

As your off day went on, your lover and you did a few things around your home before settling down on the couch. Vic was laying on top of you and looking at you while you traced patterns along her back "you‘re so beautiful, the prettiest girl, mijn liefje" she murmured. The dutch has always been head over heels for you - everybody knew. As well it wouldn‘t suprise anyone if she proposed soon, the two of you have been together since the U-teams. "Thank you, Victoria" you smiled, blushing like a mess. Her body tensed, not liking it all when you called her Victoria. She gave you a confused look which you ignored, acting like you didn‘t see it. "I‘m gonna get a glass of water, do you want one?", she asked after she stood rather abruptly up. "I‘m good" Vic made her way to the kitchen yet not to get a glass of water like she said but to check her calendar to see if she had forgotten anything that might have pissed you off.

Your birthday? No.

Your anniversary? No.

Your (grand) parents birthday? No.

Why would you call her Victoria?!

"Victoria, come backkk" you whined, missing her touch. Again?!

When Vic re-entered the living room her eyes met your relaxing figure. You seemed at peace yet mad at her, why else would you call her Victoria? "Mijn liefje," you thought she was about to crack, the way her orbs looked sad, her body tense, "dinner at your favorites tonight?" - she tried everything that you wouldn‘t call her Victoria again. You jumped in her arms, overcome with joy "Yes!" God, you were confusing! The whole day you only called her Victoria and seemed mad at her but on the other hand you acted like you normally would. "You‘re amazing Victoria." Slightly pissed now, the midfielder grabbed your hips and pressed her lips against yours with anger. Your knees got weak and If she hadn‘t held you, you would‘ve fallen to the ground, your body was on fire, your stomach full with butterflies, your mind completely consumed by your lover. When air became an issue you pulled apart, both of you out of breath, chest heavily rising and falling "Wow, Vict-"

"Don‘t!" the dutch stormed out of the room back into the kitchen. She just gave you on of the best kisses in your life and you still wanted to call her Victoria. Of course, you followed her, not sure if you should continue the prank. "Victoria?" you questioned, doing it anyways. "STOP THAT!" she said louder and much more annoyed. "Why are you in a mood with me?! All day long you‘ve been calling me Victoria! I‘m not just Victoria to you! I‘m your girlfriend and future wife, so don‘t call me that. I‘m anything but that to you!" you grinned as she rambled on, your heart melting at 'future wife'. "Baby," immediately her eyes found yours "better?" smiling, you pulled her into you. Her head was hiding in the crook of your neck "or my love? Princess? My star?" you felt her nod rapidly in your neck at each pet name. "why are you mad at me?" the pouty face (almost the same as the iconic florence pugh pout) of your girlfriend looked at you. In that moment, you wanted to wrap her up and protect her from the whole world. "I‘m not. It was just a prank, my love. Katie suggested it" relief washed over her, "just a prank" it wasn‘t a question, more a confirmation for herself.

"liefje," her hands held your waist as she walked you to the wall, "that wasn‘t very nice of you" she whispered in your ear while her body was trapping you between herself and the wall. Slowly, she trailed kisses along your neck and jaw. You were putty in her hands. When she got to your weak spot a moan escaped your throat which made her go wild yet she ignored her blissful state as she pulled away "dinner at my favorites, now."

—————————

pt. 2

[comicwritesstuff]

Vanessa Shelly/Afton x Fem!Reader

This is an angsty make you feel like shit story, like I was physically and mentally in pain writing this. I'll make a fluff and cute one after this SORRY NOT SORRY 😭

Working nights at Freddy Fazbear's pizzeria isn't really anyone's dream job. I have been working here for a week or two, it could be worse just staring at a screen until 6am then leaving the creepy atmosphere. I look at the monitors, zoning off. I just got here so my shift just started, Yay, so exciting…Luckily the sheriff makes it better. Vanessa Shelly is probably the most gorgeous woman I've ever laid my eyes on, ever since she showed up at night, with her raincoat on I couldn't help getting a tiny crush on her...and that's all it was. Tiny.

Well, at least I had thought that was what it would be…I can’t help it, I didn’t mean to fall for her she just tripped me. Her doe eyes, her smile, her stern voice when I try and do something stupid or dangerous, her laugh and her voice…fuck. I need to focus… I'm working. I stop dozing off, finally paying attention to the monitors in front of me, mostly just staring at the outside camera, wondering if Vanessa would come in today. And look at that. Her cop car pulls up, my heart flutters as I see her walk up and buzz the buzzer, it's raining. Hard. So I speed walk and open the door, grinning. “Hey Nessie!” She smiles even wider at me, my heart flutters again. “Hey y/n, can you let me in now, it's a little rainy.” I laugh and step to the side, letting her in as I close the door, locking it again I can feel her staring at me. Turning around we walk to the showtime area. (forgot what its called don’t come at me, but y'know what i mean)

“We should let the animatronics play some music” She suggests as I nod as I stand up quickly and press the showtime button, they all start singing and playing songs. I sit back down where Vanessa is, making conversation. “So how's your shift been today?” She looks over at me making my stomach twist into knots, I try not to blush but it just makes it worse…thinking about not blushing with her staring at me. “Oh just the normal stuff, beating up bad guys, solving crime and saving a bunch of people. All in a day's work.” She jokes, shrugging and smiling. I laugh at her sarcasm, looking back over at the animatronics, who (perfect timing) just started playing “Just the Two of Us: By Grover Washington, Jr.” I feel Vanessa’s eyes on me, I look down, my heart racing. Fuck I should ask her to dance. “Wanna dance?” She said it first, to be honest I probably turned bright red, but that didn’t matter, I got to dance with my crush, I'm obviously gonna blush. I nod eagerly and stand up with her, she grabs ahold of my hand, her simple touch sending chills down my spine, she glides her hand across my back resting it there as we dance together, smiling and laughing.

The perfect moment, that I never want to end. God looking at her, being so close to her, I have to tell her…I have to shoot my shot but I just can’t bring myself to do it. We dance for a while, for at least a few songs, before something changes. A look in her eye that I ever slightly noticed but I still saw it with how intently I was looking into them. Her once happy and joyful eyes changed, to a melancholic, sad and maybe even confused look. I was just about to ask her if everything was alright until she stopped, the music kept playing but she just stopped, staring at me, not moving. “Ness, is everything okay?” I say worried, did I fuck something up? Did I do something wrong? “Just…stop y/n we can’t.” She says and pulls her hands away, turning her head not looking at me any longer.  My heart tugs at me, it feels like my body is shutting down. “What, what do you mean?” I reach out, grabbing her wrist. “Nessie..?” She whips around, shoving my hand away she seems angry but she's crying, and so that makes me start to cry.

“I wish you were a boy.” No. No. No. No please no, this has to be fake, please let what she just said, not be true… please. I stare at her in disbelief, tears falling down my cheeks faster than ever. It feels like time is paused, it feels like everything is broken inside me, like all my organs, my bones my heart specifically turned to glass, and she just fucking broke it all with a hammer. I want nothing more than to curl up into a ball, to just stop, to just be done, but I love her…I have to try. “Why..? Why does that matter I- I can be just as good as a guy.” She looks at me, her eyes searching my heartbroken face, I can’t even hear the music anymore, I’ve drowned it out with her. “No, I can't…my father wouldn’t accept it and I just…I just can't. Why are you making this so difficult?” “So it's my fault? It's my fault you can’t just accept the fact that you like women?! Who cares if your father doesn’t like it, aren’t I worth it?” I say, loud enough that the animatronics have now noticed, the music stopped, they are watching. “I-...I don't know.” “You don't?! You don't know? That…fuck Vanessa… please… just..give me a chance?” She steps closer to me, cupping my cheek with her hand. I try not to accept the comfort but it's all I need right now, so I unwillingly do. “Y/N, I love you…but I don’t think…that I can, you just…I can't”

“I’m sorry I really am-” “No. Don’t do that, I don’t want your apologies, I don’t want this job anymore either, tell whoever owns this shit that I quit…I can’t see you anymore Ness, it’ll hurt me more.” I look at her once more, before turning my back and walking to the exit. Vanessa stares at me, tears still running down her cheek. “Y/N, can’t we be friends, please I can’t lose you.” I turn around, shaking my head. “No, no don’t try to do that, I can’t just be friends with you, and you know that.” I keep walking, she's following me, I unlock the door walking out into the cold, rainy night. Before I get to my car I feel Vanessa grab my wrist, spinning me around. Her lips connect with mine, a passionate kiss that lasts far too short, even then I wrap my hands around her neck, trying to deepen the kiss, forgetting all that just happened, she runs one hand through my soaked hair, and the other around my back.

I didn’t want anything else in the world, it was the best thing I'd experienced. Until we pulled away, and I saw the same look in her eyes, the same look that said, that I just wasn't worth it. I wasn’t worth the risk, nor the love or the fear. It turned from my favorite memory of my life, to the one that makes my heart shatter at the thought of it. “Y/N..” I turn around walking the last few steps to my car. “Vanessa, however long it takes you to think I'm worth it, I’ll be waiting, I don’t know if you ever will, it could be 20 years till you realize it. I will always be waiting for you, even though right now. I’m just not worth it.”

[pokedash55]

I gotta ramble about Showtimeshipping and Digital Circus for a hot minute before this thought disappears into the Void forever.

I just LOVE the potential of a Caine/Pomni dynamic in a one sided disaster ship kinda way. I see alot of shippers like making Caine the romantic one. Whether its Showtime or Royalshipping it seems Caine is boisterous and loud, therefore he's the haughty romantic. But he is afraid of Moon's advances, "Let's get outta here before the Moon get's frisky!". He's also an AI made for a children's point and click adventure carnival game by a cooperation in the early 2000s. Gooseworks has stated at Glitch con that he lacks alot of human emotions. I see no reason he would be outwardly romantic in the slightest other than his overenergetic and passionate personality.

I find it more hilarious if Pomni, the anxious and probably overlooked in her past life girl that she is, emotionally latched onto Caine in some way or another. Either from his personality being everything she wished she could be, bold and confident, simply seeing him as a powerful being that is the last remaining hope she has of returning to who she was, or a lighthearted Stockholm syndrome emotional dependency I dont' know. Maybe it's simply she found his voice attractive and spiraled from there. Pomni becomes angry that she's attracted to this floating teeth with eyes and just screams. Jax catches onto her little infatuation very easily and makes fun of her without outing her, making it a back and forth with them.

Caine eventually realizes his new player is unhappy and becoming increasingly unhinged very quickly. He doesn't want another intrusive abstraction, especially since she just got here, so he begins spending more time with Pomni trying to get her to chill. His purpose is to entertain and provide a fun escape from daily stress, so seeing a player as stressed as Pomni is tugs at his sensors. He needs her to be as accustomed to the world as everyone else is. If not he failed as a video game and failed is own programing. It's his duty to ensure she is comfortable and having fun.

So now Caine is hyper vigilant of Pomni's life and emotions. He takes her on adventures just for her to cheer her up, just the two of them. This is to ensure the quest is specific to her, that others aren't at risk to make her spiral further, and that he has full attention on her so he can assure her it is a painless and harmless quest, since he can always fix her or get rid of an issue if it becomes too much. All of it was just meant as a safety procedure, but Pomni sees it as coming on to her with his eagerness to spend all this alone time together. Human perceptions see it as a date, which is not even a thought for Caine. She's still jumpy and nervous and touches him alot. Like alot alot, which Caine thinks is her telling him she's lonley of course! So he gets her gifts to make her feel like she belongs and that she has things to keep her saine. Off course, this all interpreted by Pomni in a Human relationship lense and the attention deepens the hole Pomni has now dug for herself.

Eventually Caine rambles his frustrations about Pomni's behavoir and how no matter what he tries he can't seem to make her happy here to Bubble, who repeats some of his words to the cast that is mostley gone ignored, except for Jax (who already knew) and Ragatha, who finally understood what was happening and feels bad for them both. Pomni is struggling with a crush on a probably dangerous and confused AI while said AI is getting flirted with by a Human and is driving himself mad trying to decipher her strive. She steps up to actually let Caine know what he is missing and this is when true Showtime would start, with Caine realizing he does enjoy helping Pomni and Pomni coming to terms with her emotions instead of just screaming at herself for having them. From there they can have a cute, if mostly aromantic, fluffy friendship that almost borders on dating, but never quite gets there with Caine's limitations.

She's feeling claustrophobic from the tent one day and he generates a small area for her to explore stressfree to take her mind away from that feeling of being trapped. He talks about having creations both from Jax saying, "is this another one of your NPCs?" and Caine saying, "You know how I don't like people seeing my unfinished work" so he is a learning AI that enjoys creating and seems somewhat artistic, despite his limitations and bluntness. He enjoys helping her feel at home, despite the circumstances and Pomni grows more comfortable with herself by his radiating confidence, yet they can both be equally frantic and chaotic if the scene needs it. It's both a timid/bold dynamic and a chaos duo and I love it.

Ok that's my showtime HC dump byeeeeeeeee

[tadc-harlequin-au]

HI, SORRY! - here’s the fixed list + some other songs I found while re-writing it all out!

- Pomni -

The Ballad of Jane Doe - Ride the Cyclone

Who are you really? - Mikky Ekko

Tounges & Teeth - The Crane Wives

My Alcoholic Friends - The Dresden Dolls

- General Vibe songs -

Le Monde (From Talk to Me) - Richardson Carter

Little Dark Age - MGMT

Vale of Tears - Jason Tai

Card Castles in the Sky - Jason Tai

Dance Macabre - The Oh Hellos

(Also bonus I just thought of:

The Dolls of New Albion: A Steampunk Opera Album is good too for general vibes maybe)

- Showtime -

Curses - Crane Wives

Never Love an Anchor - Crane Wives

Allies or Enemies - Crane Wives

Me & The Devil - Soap&Skin

The Garden - Crane Wives (if you can’t tell uhh, crane wives is a very good source for angsty love songs skdhjs)

Wasteland Baby - Hozier

I’m not in love - 10cc

Duvet - bôa

(Also *maybe* Too Sweet - Hozier too?)

Like I said before - sorry if some of these don’t fit + it’s a long list 😭

WOAHHH okay okay, let's rate it then

Pomni:

Ballad of Jane Doe: I can see why you think of this. It actually surprisingly fits, what do you know

Who are you really: This one, definitely. You're on a roll so far

Tounges & Teeth: I can see this as early Pomni in the AU, when she's still pretty much following a blind directive.

My Alcoholic Friends: I can't really see this one all too much, but I do get where you're coming from. Mostly because I already know how Pomni turns out in this AU compared to what I've revealed on the public so far.

General vibe:

Le Monde (From Talk to Me): Ooooooh! I agree! For some reason I'm imagining a badass ballroom scene with this-

Little Dark Age: Honestly I can see this working with pre-Pomni/Caine meeting, when Pomni was still wandering all over the lands to look for something to fight, and Caine is just spending most of his time being isolated in the mansion

Vale of Tears: OH MY GOD ALICE: MADNESS RETURNS IN HERE?!?! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!! I can somehow see this with Boss!Ragatha-

Card Castles in the Sky: Mhm.... mhm.... yeah I can see this as the vibe of the entire city before current events of the AU, like... just an aerial view of the broken city before Pomni came.

Dance Macabre: Wow, I can see this as music for a pretty epic trailer lol, this is a vibe

I can't say anything about The Dolls of New Albion: A Steampunk Opera Album yet, because that's.... that's 25 songs- LMFAO

Showtime:

Curses: Okay, why is this so fucking upbeat yet so dark?? HELP?? I can kinda see it, but it's not fully convincing me... But at least I got a new song to listen to

Never Love an Anchor: This one.... I see it as early Pomni/Caine interactions, and somehow them both dueting.....

Allies or Enemies: Yeah.... Just- yeah..... LMFAO

Me & The Devil: This one I can't see :(

The Garden: POINTS??? THIS IS A CAINE SONG YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, SHAKING IN MY SEAT

Wasteland, Baby: Holy shit, Hozier? Damn I've heard of this guy from GoW Ragnarok, but ANWAYS. YOU. YOUUUUUUUUU. /POS... THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST ACCURATE HARLEQUIN!SHOWTIME SONG IN THIS LIST YET..... WHAT THE HELL..... CAINE SINGING THIS.... UEUEUEUE.....

I’m not in love: LMFAOOOOOOOO the denial stage harlequin!showtime song HAHHAHAHAH

Duvet - bôa: This one I can't see either-

Too Sweet: I'M GOING TO CRY this felt sm like Pomni.....

Most of these are going in my playlist now thank you for the meal

[project-sekai-facts]

I could totally be wrong abt this, since I haven't actually read most wxs stories, but from the ones I did read, I noticed that Tsukasa sometimes... weaponizes his insecurities and struggles? I shouldn't use the word weaponize, more like he uses them as a tool to enhance his acting? The biggest example being Pheonix at the Sky's Edge CH 7 & 8, where he feels like he'll never reach the goal he set for himself and uses it as a way to improve his role as Ryo? Or Dazzling Stage, where he turns his loneliness as a chid into a way to relate to Torpe? I think he does it all the time actually, since he's super loud and dramatic but his internal dialogue is so much quieter. He takes any emotion he feels and bass boosts it, which actually makes a lot of sense since we've seen him when he's not acting like that and Nene was actually kind of put-off that he wasn't yelling and being theatrical (wonder magical showtime CH 8).

Yeah, you're right. Tsukasa is probably best described as a method actor. He struggles with characters that he cannot relate to (emotionally), and has to find a way to connect himself with them in order to play them, such as Torpe and Rio. With Torpe, he was only able to act the character as best he could once he came to terms with his lonliness as a child/younger teen and realised that he used the piano in the exact same way Torpe looked at the stars. Same with Rio, where he tried starving himself like the character does first, only for that to not work but then forced himself to face his inferiority and hopelessness, and was able to connect that to the character. He always finds a way to relate to the character emotionally in the end, but both times it’s required him to uncover/face something unpleasant (that being his loneliness and inferior talent). So yeah, he's good at fairly flat 'hero' or otherwise mostly positive characters, but when he gets given a more emotionally complex character, he has to use his personal struggles to get into the mindset of the character.

I think that Tsukasa is the kind of person who doesn’t like to dwell on the past too much, but also he doesn’t seem to like to think about things that aren’t, y'know, mostly positive. Like, the reason he wanted to become a star, as well as his loneliness when he was younger both stem from Saki being really ill, which is not the most pleasant thing to think of. He doesn’t think about the group splitting up in future as much as the other members do, he is aware of it but doesn’t face it. Mr. Showtime and some brief scenes in Lion Dance New Year are the best look at that we get. And he has to force himself to face that he has less talent than the people around him in Phoenix at the Sky's Edge and breaks down crying (this is not healthy jeez).

There's an area conversation from a while back where Rui asks Toya if Tsukasa has always had the confident and showy personality and Toya says that Tsukasa adopted that personality as a kid because he felt he needed to be more outwardly confident for Saki, and it just stuck. (note: EN translated the first sentence a bit weird. As far as I can understand, in the original text Toya says that Tsukasa did do the persona deliberately as a child, but here it makes it sound like he didn't). I think that alone explains the difference between how he acts outwardly vs inwardly.

He projects everything big and loud because it makes him appear confident, and he had to be brave for Saki so he could make her happy. Not all of the projecting is for confidence reasons, he's generally pretty emotional when the emotions are positive, and always projects them up to 11. I'm assuming that with the length of time Saki was in hospital for, he got so used to his persona that it just naturally became his normal personality. So maybe as that happened he started to amplify how he expressed everything, not just his courage. When we get to see his inner self, I think it's more toned down because he doesn't need to project when he's alone, and I'm guessing that this is how he acted before the persona, or at least somewhat close.